


Who told you love is real, darling

by readtolive



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alpha Derek Hale, Angst and Tragedy, Blood and Violence, Graphic Description, Gun Violence, I would have never forgiven Derek, If You Squint - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Medical Torture, Medical Trauma, Mutism, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Not Canon Compliant, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Out of Character, Police Procedural, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad with a Happy Ending, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Scott is a Good Friend, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Unresearched, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26453047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readtolive/pseuds/readtolive
Summary: Derek does something unforgivable“Would you like something to drink, Derek?” John offers, remembering his manners.“No, thank you, Sheriff," Derek clears his throat. "Well, you must be wondering what I am doing here. I won't keep you guessing a second longer. I am here on a very important, time-sensitive matter. I am here to ask your son, Stiles," and he helpfully gesticulates towards Stiles' person, as if the Sheriff didn't know who or where Stiles was, "on a date."The word 'date' explodes like a firecracker in John and Stiles' ears and they both open their mouth, gawking. Derek continues, all official and unperturbed. "And hopefully, after we talk and get to know each other a little better, I would like to ask for permission from you, Sheriff, to officially court him.”
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 9
Kudos: 207





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for violence, as tagged

Stiles meets Derek for the first time at Scott’s house, hiding behind his best friend’s back because he is overwhelmed by the events.

There are so many people in the house, too many, in Stiles' opinion; he doesn’t know half of them. He is sure that Scott or Melissa don't know them either, but it is an important occasion and people came, invited or not.

Becoming a member of the Hale pack is a big thing. Huge. So, naturally, everybody from the town wanted to be here, to greet their Alpha, to show their appreciation that one more is saved, taken into the fold. Apparently, Alpha Hale gives the gift of the bite only to those who need it, not to the ones who want it. If that weren't the case, half of the town would be members of the pack.

This time, it's Scott. His Scott. Alpha gave him the bite last week, after he had spent another ten days in the hospital hooked on oxygen tanks and inhalators, with Melissa's blessing, of course - and they survived. And by 'they', Stiles means Scott and himself, _of course_.

So Stiles comes even though he hates crowds - he is aware that this _is_ something to celebrate, but he plants himself behind Mrs. McCall’s ficus, which is blissfully taller than him, hiding and occasionally stealing bits of food from the nearby table. Great spot. He is right in the middle of nibbling on a delicious cheese cracker when Scott sees him and blows his cover - he lifts him up from the ground in a bear hug, laughing and twirling him in the air. “Stop hiding, buddy. Come, join the festivities!"

"What festivities, Scott," Stiles complains and pats his friend gently on the shoulder. Scott puts him down. "I saw Mrs. Jameson stealing food into her bag for later."

Scott grins and gives Stiles that honest, confessional-time look. "I. . . am so happy, Stiles. You’ll see, everything’s going to be fine. Nothing’s going to change." Why would something change, Stiles didn't even think something would change. "Well, except that I won’t be sick anymore, and I’ll have to do pack stuff. But other than that… We’re still best buds, I’ll still spend as much time with you as I did before.”

And Stiles can’t help it, Scott's positive attitude infecting him as well, so he laughs together with his friend, happy for him, happy with him. Stiles trusts him, implicitly. Scott had never lied to him before, and there is no reason for him to start doing it now when he is a werewolf. Stiles hugs his friend back, swinging his skinny arms around his neck, and he finds Scott's new size odd under his touch; he was always bigger than Stiles, but especially now, after the bite. It feels like his muscles have grown muscles.

“Come, let’s meet everyone,” Scott declares, dragging the reluctant Stiles a little.

Stiles’ eyes roam across the gathering, humans and werewolves all mixed, and he decides that it would be safest to hide behind Scott’s back, as per usual, again. And Scott usually lets him, so when after a few steps, Scott takes him by his arm and nudges a little, placing Stiles in front of him, Stiles jerks in surprise. Traitor.

“Alpha Hale, this is my best friend, Stiles,” Scott declares proudly.

Stiles is mortified. Alpha! Scott gave him no warning, no anything, this is a gross violation of their bro code. Stiles can’t bring himself to look up from the ground. He retreats again behind Scott, and clutches Scott’s shirt at his back.

“Stiles. Nice to meet you,” a melodious voice says and a strong, robust hand appears under his nose.

Oh. Well. He can't be uncivil now. Stiles bites his lip and knows that he should look up, greet the Alpha properly, with decorum. He tries, but all he manages is to put his hand in the man’s much bigger one, terrified that he is ruining things for Scott, embarrassed by the sweatiness of his palm, and not a little afraid, to be honest – if Alpha Hale decides to shake his hand for real, good chances are that he’ll break a bone or two in it. Stiles hopes that the Alpha can tell that he is an omega.

The man cups Stiles' hand gently like it's made of glass and strokes his open palm with his thumb, once, twice, mindful of his strength.

Stiles' skin tingles and he panics a little. "I'm sorry," he mumbles into his chin, apologizing for his own social and other ineptitude.

He hears the alpha huff out through his nose in amusement. "There's nothing to apologize for, Stiles," the voice says softly.

Stiles blinks, grateful, and looks up in surprise, only for a second, just a fleeting glimpse through his eyelashes – all he gets for his effort is a vague blur of dark hair, strong beard, sharp features and piercing, pale eyes. He focuses on the floor again.

“Aw, come on, buddy, don’t be like that,” Scott cajoles, hugging Stiles around his shoulders in support. “He’s not scared of you, I promise, Alpha. He’s just a little shy. But you’ll get to know him, I hope. We’ve been best friends since diapers.”

Stiles blushes at Scott’s words, grateful and embarrassed in equal amounts. But he can't fault his friend for he isn’t wrong.

“You can bring him to the next pack meeting if you'd like,” Alpha offers.

“That’d be great! Thank you,” Scott says with glee, and decides that they shouldn't hog their alpha's time any longer, to Stiles’ relief.

He introduces Stiles to a few more people, with the same amount of social ineptitude on Stiles’ part. Thankfully, the official part of the evening begins, with speeches from the Sheriff, Melissa and the Alpha himself, so Stiles goes back in hiding.

\---

Stiles never gets around to attending any pack meetings after that. Truth be told, he doesn’t even particularly want to. He prefers to be alone, or with Scott, or his father. Scott keeps his promise, he doesn't ditch on Stiles now that he is the pack member and they still spend a lot of time together, playing games, going swimming, or just talking; nothing much changes. A few times he does have to cancel, he makes it up to Stiles by some extra long quality bro time.

He talks about the pack, and his Alpha, with great reverence.

A couple of weeks after Scott's party, on one of those lonely, uneventful evenings, when Sheriff lies sprawled on his chair downstairs watching television and Stiles is upstairs in his room reading, something happens that Stiles deeply believes he should have gotten a warning for. A doorbell rings, quite unexpectedly, jerking them both from their lull. Stiles can hear his father getting up, opening the door and talking to someone, but he can’t tell who it is.

A few minutes later, John climbs upstairs and peeks around Stiles’ door. “Son, you have a visitor.”

Still clutching his book, Stiles frowns. It's a strange word choice, since they never have ‘visitors’. Only Scott and Melissa come to their house, and Parrish, John’s deputy, on occasion – and they never refer to any one of them as ‘visitor'.

When Stiles doesn’t move, still believing that his dad is possibly joking, or sleep-walking, John clears his throat, eyeballs him meaningfully and repeats. “You better get up, son, there’s someone here to see you," he says loudly, and then whispers dramatically,"it’s Alpha Hale.”

Stiles pales immediately, shocked. He gets up, pushes his fingers through his hair in an attempt to make himself more presentable. He fears something has happened to Scott. He goes down the stairs slowly, clutching the banister since his legs are shaking. He looks awful, in his too small sweatpants and a threadbare shirt. He really tries not to panic.

His dad trudges after him.

And yes, there he is, Alpha Hale, in the middle of their poorly lit, linoleum clad hallway. It's like seeing Santa Claus, unreal. Stiles stops, looks back at his father, and John flails his arm over his son's shoulder. "Would you come into the living room, please, alpha. More space there."

Alpha Hale nods. When all three men stand in the living room facing one another, not knowing how or when to start, it is their guest who first breaks the awkward silence that has descended upon them. “Hello, Stiles,” Alpha greets. Stiles stops clutching his fingers and nods his head, hoping that he doesn’t blush. “Alpha,” he whispers in return in the man’s general direction, without looking at him.

“Please, call me Derek.”

"Is everything all right with Scott?" Stiles addresses the man for the first time ever and remains alive to tell about it, so. Yay him.

"Of course! I'm sorry, I see how you might have thought that was the reason behind my visit. I apologize."

And Stiles can’t help it; he grins a little for the first time in the man’s presence. He has no idea what the man is doing at his house, apologizing, demanding that Stiles call him by his first name, but Stiles finds it ridiculous.

“Would you like something to drink, Derek?” John offers, remembering his manners.

“No, thank you, Sheriff," Derek clears his throat. "Well, you must be wondering what I am doing here. I won't keep you guessing a second longer. I am here on a very important, time-sensitive matter. I am here to ask your son, Stiles," and he helpfully gesticulates towards Stiles' person, as if the Sheriff didn't know who or where Stiles was, "on a date."

The word 'date' explodes like a firecracker in John and Stiles' ears and they both open their mouth, gawking. Derek continues, all official and unperturbed. "And hopefully, after we talk and get to know each other a little better, I would like to ask for permission from you, Sheriff, to officially court him.”

Stiles almost faints in shock. He stands there, frozen, and pinches his thigh. He must be dreaming. The entire scene feels surreal. And somehow - wrong.

John frowns. “Um, well, you see, Alpha, um, Derek, I don’t know the official protocol here, but if you want to take my son out on a date, all you have to do is ask him,” he manages to say in response. 

Stiles frowns as well. He feels put on the spot, unfairly. Wouldn't it be nicer if something preceded this 'official' approach, something like, for example, talking with Stiles? Unofficially. Getting to know him. Seeing if he was interested at all. Stiles doesn't know, but the man standing before him is a complete stranger. 

“This _is_ the protocol,” Derek replies. “In deference to you and your son, your position in this town, and your son’s youth and inexperience, I decided to follow it fully.”

John scratches his head. “Well. Thank you for that. I feel like I should say at this point that my son has never been on a date with a boy. A man. Or a girl! Anyone, really. I don’t know." He turns towards Stiles in exasperation. "Son, maybe you should say something.”

Stiles blinks at his father, finding it unsettling to see him so flustered.

He doesn’t have a problem that Derek is a man, or that he is probably so much older than him – Stiles knew that he wasn’t straight for a long time now, regardless of his total lack of experience. His main problem remains that he doesn’t know Derek. He knows nothing about him, aside from some general, available to the public facts.

“I . . . I don’t know you,” stumbles out of his mouth, uncensored, and Stiles feels his face burning. "I mean, I don't understand. . ."

Derek smiles at that, clearly finding Stiles’ clumsiness endearing. “Stiles, I liked you from the first moment I saw you and it was much before Scott’s party where we officially met. I know that you are right for me, as we werewolves always do. Please, would you have dinner with me, so that you can get to know me better? I already know a lot about you. You can decide later. No pressure.”

He _likes_ Stiles? He knows _a lot_ about Stiles? Talk about unfair advantage. Stiles feels pressured, and he hates that.

Stiles looks at John who raises his arms in surrender. “Don’t look at me. It’s up to you, kiddo.”

Stiles doesn’t want to go out with Derek. He doesn't understand why the man would want to do that in the first place, and the scariness of the situation far outweighs any possible interest Stiles might or might not have; on the other hand, he also doesn’t feel comfortable refusing. It would be impolite, to say the least. Stiles isn’t stupid, he knows it is a big deal to get an official offer from the alpha and that he should be flattered.

He feels guilty because he isn't. So. . . should he try and step outside his comfort zone a little? It's not exactly a bad thing to have his first date with an alpha, no less. He can go on one date and Derek can see for himself that Stiles is just a piddly omega and that he wants nothing to do with him. The alternative is to muster up some form of an official rejection right now and end this thing right here, right now. Stiles doesn't think he has the nerves for that.

So, he purses his lips and asks eloquently, “When?”

Derek's face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Tomorrow? If it's all right with you,” Derek suggests hopefully. “I was thinking dinner. If you’d like.”

This is so awkward. The man he knows nothing about, who claims that he likes him based on who knows what, is going to be Stiles' first date. So not the romantic dream he had been hoping for.

But, Stiles bites his lip and nods anyway; and so it is settled. After many polite greetings and expressions of gratitude from all sides, Derek departs, leaving both Stilinski men dazed and more than a little confused. It takes them a few moments to unfreeze from their spots.

John huffs. "I did not see this coming, son." He plops back into his chair. “How old is he anyway? I need another beer after this.”

Stiles goes into the kitchen and gets a bottle of beer from the fridge for his dad. He knows that John knows _everything_ about Derek, but he indulges him anyway. His dad is trying to make a point that Stiles is already aware of. Stiles is aware of _all_ the points. “I don’t know. Twenty-five? Twenty-six?”

John sighs. “He’s a lot older than you. And stronger than you. Do you even like him?”

Stiles shrugs. “I mean, like I said, I don’t know him. I've seen him once, talked with him twice, including this time. What can I like about him?”

John raises his eyebrows. “I don't know. He's good looking?"

"Dad!"

"Hey, don't snap at me! I'm trying here. He is the Alpha."

Stiles shakes his head.

John sips from his bottle. "So why did you agree to go out with him then?”

“Scott says he is a good person. And he _is_ handsome,” Stiles manages to blush only a little while saying this.

"I knew it!"

Stiles smiles. “Maybe that's how dates work, maybe I will like him after ours.”

John puts his beer on the table. “Listen, son. I know you. I know how you. . . Just. . . I don’t think he’ll hurt you or anything like that, but in case he makes you feel uncomfortable, or scared, call me. Or anyone at the station. Look for the signs. I don’t want you to get hurt. He’s the Alpha, he should be the most stable of the lot, but, you never know.”

Stiles knows what his father wants to say. He knows that John isn’t a racist and that he has nothing against human-werewolf couples, and that the only reason he is saying this is because his father knows how soft, breakable, emotional and fragile Stiles exactly is. John is afraid for Stiles safety if he gets involved with someone as powerful as Derek, and Stiles gets that. But somewhere deep in Stiles' soul, he hopes for the exact opposite – that Derek’s power won't be the source of fear, but of protection and care that Stiles so desperately needs.

"Meanwhile, I'll look around for information on how to turn down alpha's official proposal, so that we don't get into too much trouble if you decide to refuse him."

Stiles grins. "You're the best, dad," he kisses his dad's cheek and goes up to his room.

\---

Stiles wants to call Scott first thing in the morning and tell him all about his date with Derek. He wants to ask him if he knew about it, what he thinks about it, if he has any advice for him, et cetera; but, he ultimately decides against it.

The time of Derek’s arrival is approaching fast, and Stiles spends it in a jumbled mess of emotions and nerves, freaking out, and frantically searching for what to wear. He doesn't have time or energy to handle Scott’s input at the moment.

In the end, he opts for dark jeans and shirt, something as unpretentious and as invisible as he can find, wanting to remain exactly that, invisible. He really doesn’t like to stand out. He supposes everyone’s heads will be turning and everyone will be gossiping anyway, and he doesn’t like that.

Also, he doesn’t want Derek to think that he is having high hopes, or any hopes, regarding him. So he puts on his black skinny jeans, a dark grey shirt and his black converse, remembering not to use any cologne or aftershave since Scott always sneezes around him if he wears artificial scents.

When the doorbell rings, he runs downstairs and opens the door, slightly out of breath. Derek’s eyes focus on him, scorching. “Good evening, Stiles. You look lovely.”

No one's ever complimented Stiles before. Stiles doesn't know how he feels about it. He is inexperienced, but he isn't stupid. He has internet, he's watched the movies, he won't let Derek sweet-talk him into anything. But his body doesn't get the memo, because Stiles feels a rush of blood coloring his face. Oh, god, if Derek keeps showering him with compliments, Stiles can't handle that, he will spend the entire evening red as a stop sign.

He fidgets, unsure how to proceed, but Derek takes the charge. He takes his hand, as gently and carefully as that first time. He leans in, almost touching Stiles’ cheek with his lips. “I love it when you blush,” he murmurs, and then, without giving Stiles a chance to have a meltdown, he takes him down the steps towards his car.

Stiles does manage to let out a nervous giggle, and Derek looks at him curiously. “Come on. We have reservations at ‘Salvatore’s’.”

He opens the door for Stiles like a perfect gentleman, waiting patiently for Stiles to settle into the Camaro’s leather seat, and then he buckles him in himself, to Stiles' surprise. His neck and shoulder hover near Stiles’ face for a few moments, and Stiles forgets how to breathe. He lets himself have a few undetected moments to admire his tanned skin and incredible smell. He feels utterly betrayed by his body.

Derek Hale is definitely a very handsome man. Stiles feels his stomach churn and his limbs start to tremble with adrenaline. This is all so very new to him. But it is exciting, and Stiles can see why people like this sort of thing. 

Derek closes his door and goes around the car to sit behind the wheel. He doesn’t start the car immediately though; he turns towards Stiles and touches his chin gently. “Hey. Don’t be nervous.”

Of course he can tell. He probably has a million ways to detect Stiles' emotions. Stiles resigns himself to being an open book for the alpha and stares at his front porch.

“I won’t lie to you, Stiles,” Derek whispers. “I like you very, very much. I’ll do anything you want to be with you. Anything.”

Stiles' blinks in shock and makes himself look at the man. After all, it's the least he can do after such declaration. He offers a watery smile. But, they're still in front of his goddamn house and Stiles suspects that by the end of the evening, he's going to get a marriage proposal at this pace. The Alpha does not beat around the bush, to put it mildly. He rushes and pushes, and the feeling of being pressured comes back with full force on Stiles.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want. You can trust me. Please, just don’t be afraid of me.”

“I. . . I’m not afraid,” Stiles says, blinking. "Much."

Derek leans towards him. “You’re not entirely honest right now, but I won’t fault you for that. Like you said, you don’t know me. I’ll change that soon, if you let me. I need you to trust me.”

“Okay,” Stiles murmurs. "It's just. . . Can we go slow?"

"Of course." Derek takes his hand and kisses his knuckles. “Thank you, baby.”

Stiles cannot move. He feels betrayed. Baby? How's that going slow? They haven't even spent half an hour together. They haven't even kissed yet! Surely this isn't how these things normally go. It's very unnerving.

Derek starts the car, and Stiles turns to look outside the window, ignoring his frantic heart. He didn’t expect so much conversation and revelations right from the start. Is it like this for other couples, or is it only for werewolves? He has to ask Scott about it. Although Scott is a new, bitten werewolf and probably doesn’t know much about it. This is Stiles' first date, ever. Stiles' first everything, really. He had a passing fascination with Lydia Martin throughout freshmen year of high school, before he switched to online schooling, but soon realized it was more about curiosity and admiration for how she kept her skin flawless and hair shiny than anything remotely romantic or sexual. He didn’t want Lydia to kiss him. He never felt desire for anyone in his eighteen years of life.

Until tonight.

Stiles' body and mind are out of sync tonight.

When they enter the restaurant, Derek keeps his hand at the small of Stiles’ back, and Stiles likes it, very much. His hand is as long as the entire expanse of Stiles’ back, and so warm that it makes Stiles’ skin tingle even through the shirt.

Derek pulls his chair out for him. The werewolf has manners, Stiles has to admit.

“I love this place, you’ll see. They have great seafood. And wine. Their cellar is amazing,” Derek says. When Stiles frowns with worry at the mention of the wine, the werewolf notices. “Ah. I almost forgot. No alcohol for you.” Stiles smiles weakly.

Derek leans towards him. “Stiles, I know how old you are. And I'm fine with it. Does it bother you? Our age difference?”

Before Stiles can answer, their waiter comes. Derek orders for both of them, and truthfully, Stiles is grateful. It saves him the trouble of deciphering the menu, and choosing. He never likes to make decisions, it is difficult for him for some reason.

When the waiter leaves, Derek raises his eyebrows at Stiles expectantly. “Um, not really. I don’t know.”

Derek rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Have you ever had a boyfriend before?”

Stiles looks at him in alarm and shakes his head. Does he have to ask such personal questions? Plus, John's already told him, and Stiles knows that he remembers.

“You really don’t know then,” Derek sighs. “For werewolves, age, gender, race, that sort of thing, are completely irrelevant. They're non-issues. We don't even think in that mind-frame.” When Stiles remains quiet, Derek takes a chance and covers Stiles' hand with his own, stroking it softly. The touch pleases Stiles immensely. But, at the risk of offending him, Stiles pulls it slowly back into his lap.

"I know I'll probably sound like my aunt Edna, but. . ." Stiles hesitates and starts scrunching the napkin. "You're the leader of the pack. Don't you want a nice. . . lady. . . werewolf. . . friend, to be your, you know," he pinches his lips in frustration.

Derek grins. "No, Stiles. I most definitely do not want a nice lady werewolf friend. I want you."

"I mean," Stiles looks everywhere but at his companion. "When you put it like that. . . I believe you, but. . ."

“You don't feel the same," Derek says.

Stiles is embarrassed, but he can't lie about this, so he shakes his head forlornly.

"It's all right, it'll come to you."

Stiles keeps his facial expression neutral, because right now, he wants to scream. Or possibly cry. Derek's over-confidence and condescending manner rubs him the wrong way and isn't helping at all with his turmoil.

"Tell me, Stiles, what do you know about me?”

Stiles clears his throat a little and almost starts to squirm in his chair, but he doesn’t. Derek’s repetitive caresses ground him. Stiles didn't even realize that his hand somehow ended in Derek's again. “Um, I know you live at that big house in the preserve. And. . . you have that big building downtown. . . where you work. And, um, you’re the Alpha.”

Derek chuckles, and Stiles smiles back at him. "So, more than an Eskimo, less than a lady that packs groceries at my local store." They keep smiling at each other and the fact that Stiles doesn't look away feels like a victory to both of them. "Please," Stiles quips. "Like it matters what kind of toothpaste you use."

The food arrives and they start eating in better mood.

But Stiles' nerves get to him again. What if it never comes to him, and he ends in a relationship where Derek wants him and he doesn't want Derek back? That would be awful, Stiles doesn't want that. He likes that Derek is handsome and everything, but Stiles needs. . . so much more. Tenderness, affection, understanding, respect. Love. He doesn't know if Derek can give him those things, and he would be risking a lot if he tried to find out. The feeling of helplessness overwhelms him and his throat constricts, refusing to work. So after a few bites, he drops his fork, nauseated, unable to take a single morsel of food. He starts fidgeting. He gets a feeling that everyone is staring. 

Derek looks at him under his eyebrows. “Aren’t you going to eat that?”

Stiles flinches at the rebuke; he picks up his fork again. He takes another bite, chews, but he can't swallow. He struggles, his food stuck. He tries to wash it down with his soda and coughs.

Derek frowns at him. “You’re still anxious. You have no appetite because of that.”

Stiles starts sweating. He feels his heart rate go up, and his breaths turn uneven. “I want to eat, but I can't.” He wants to die from embarrassment. 

Derek waves for the waiter in alarm. “Check, please.”

He immediately turns to Stiles. “Give me your hand. We’re leaving,” Derek says softly and takes Stiles' hand, stroking it in comfort. He seems to know that it calms him. “Come on, Stiles. Breathe for me.”

As soon as the waiter returns with Derek’s card, they leave their half-eaten meals and Derek takes him outside.

Fresh air feels like heaven on Stiles’ flushed face. They walk a little towards the nearby park, Derek supporting Stiles’ weight by holding him close to his body. They find a secluded bench and Derek pulls him on his lap. He cuddles Stiles against his body and Stiles accepts it. He has to admit that it comforts him. He doesn't have the energy any more to question or worry whether it's too soon or right.

When he looks at Derek’s face, he can see that his eyes are tinged with red and that his features have started to shift. Derek sighs in frustration. “Sorry. It’s because I felt you weren’t feeling well and I have this urge to protect you.”

“It’s all right,” Stiles whispers. “I understand. Please, don’t apologize.”

Derek grumbles a little. “I’m not scaring you?”

Stiles shakes his head. “It feels good. I feel good here, on your lap.”

Derek chuckles in relief. “I’m glad.” He keeps stroking Stiles’ back in comfort, and his features slowly shift back to human. “Do you want to go back home?”

Stiles nods.

“All right, darling. Can I see you again?”

Stiles nods again.

“Can I court you?”

Stiles lifts his head from Derek’s chest and smiles shyly at him. Derek smiles back, relieved. He cups Stiles’ face with his fingers and presses their lips together in a chaste kiss. “You are so precious. I thought I would never find a mate. I thought that someone like you could never exist. . .I don't deserve you.”

Stiles feels to weak to say anything, his head hazy and body exhausted. He buries his head in Derek's chest again and licks his lips, chasing Derek's taste on them. He is so tired, he can't think.

\---

Stiles sleeps restlessly that night, tossing and turning until he gets all tangled up in the sheets. He can’t make up his mind about Derek at all. He thinks he should have never agreed on a date to begin with. It’s too much stress and anxiety for him, to even contemplate about being with someone like Hale. He doesn’t need that stress in his life. But, at the same time, when he remembers. . . and he _does_ remember, frequently, his touch, his smell, his sweet words and promises, something warm unfurls in his stomach and fills him with unknown pleasure.

He’s barely woken up when there’s a knock on his window. When he looks up and sees Scott’s goofy smile through the glass, he smiles back at his best friend and gets up to let him in.

“Hey, buddy,” Scott greets him and jumps in. He plops on the chair in front of Stiles' desk, pushing Stiles' school papers aside so that he can lift his legs there. Stiles' house is like a second home to him, just like his place is like a second home to Stiles. John has been more of a father to him than his real dad, and Stiles loves Melissa like a mom. 

“What’s wrong with my front door?” Stiles asks, stretching out on the bed.

“Werewolf now, remember. This is easier,” Scott huffs. “Sooooo," he gets this jovial expression on his face and eyes Stiles significantly. "I heard the news!”

Stiles rolls his eyes. At this point, probably everyone has.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me. I want to know everything! I mean,” Scott swivels in the chair and spreads his arms, looking like he’s having an epiphany. “You have to know how big this is. Official courtship from the alpha? When I heard, and not from you, mind you,” he gives Stiles a reproachful look, “that was so not cool and we’ll talk about that later by the way. . . I _flipped_. Flipped, capital F.”

Stiles hugs his knees on the bed and doesn’t say anything.

Scott’s eyes bulge at him. “Well? How was it? What did you think of him? Did you accept it?”

“Kind of.”

Scott gurgles like he's choking on his own spit. Stiles looks at him worryingly before he remembers he's a werewolf now and that he'll be fine. “Kind of? Are you kidding me?! You can't joke about this. Did you or didn’t you? You have to take this seriously, Stiles. Please, you can’t disrespect him.”

Stiles sits up in alarm. “I’m not, I said I did, I mean. . . Actually, not so much said, I don’t think I used words as such, I. . . I think I smiled at him when he asked.”

Scott grabs his hair in frustration. "You smiled? I'm going to have a stroke."

“That’s why I said ‘kind of’, I don’t know if I should do anything official, like a release statement, or what,” Stiles’ voice tapers off. Scott's dramatics freak him out. “And I’m not sure if I should. Accept at all, I mean.”

Scott looks at him with a trace of pity in his eyes. "You don't know?"

Stiles doesn’t like it, but he knows he deserves it, he’s such a mess.

“Oh, buddy. Let's recapitulate. You went on a date, right?”

Stiles nods.

“So how was that?”

Stiles smiles shyly. “It was nice. I liked it.”

Scott grins at him. “There you go. Why are you not sure, what are you worried about?”

“That I’m gonna get hurt.”

Scott frowns. “Derek won’t hurt you. Physically or emotionally. He has fantastic control. Besides, you’re his mate, he’d sooner chop his own arm off than hurt you. You know that, right? Read up a little, it’s one of the strongest, most primal instincts of werewolves, to protect their own.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, biting his fingernails. Scott’s words mean so much to him.

“Of course. Plus, I’m here. I’ll be watching him like a hawk. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Thanks, Scott.”

Scott waggles his eyebrows like a clown. "Did he kiss you?"

Stiles smiles and promptly pulls his hands up to hide his face.

"Nice! I'm so happy for you," Scott says. Stiles believes him, because he has been Scott's faithful confidant for matters of love for years now. He remembers how happy he was about his friend's firsts.

Stiles finally manages to relax. “He’s taking me to the fair on Friday.”

“Second date already, way to go, buddy!” Scott encourages. “Now, let’s resume our game, I need to see if I’m better at it now with my new reflexes,” he says, grabbing the console and sticking his tongue out already. Stiles grins at that, and both friends leave their worries behind and indulge in some quality video gaming for the next couple of hours.

\---

In the morning, a big basket arrives at their door, containing a bottle of whiskey for John and lots of fruit and candy for Stiles, courtesy of Alpha Hale. Stiles feels vindicated and wants to call Scott immediately to gloat, because his acceptance of the courtship was obviously perfectly clear and good enough, thank you very much. He picks out all the Hershey bars from the basket, deciding that he deserves an award.

The next day, it's a 20-pound packet of prime venison. Stiles has to spend the entire afternoon chopping it up and packing it into the freezer, but he doesn’t mind. He revels in the attention.

And then Friday comes. Derek picks him up, dressed in dark jeans, white shirt and his leather jacket, all warm smile and heated gaze, and Stiles realizes with sudden clarity that he _wants_ to be with him tonight, he wants to let Derek hold him, he wants to revel in his attention and care. For the first time, Stiles can see the level of interest and curiosity surrounding the Alpha. Wherever they go, crowds part before them like the Red Sea, people whispering, giggling or straight up greeting and waving at them like they are celebrities. They let them cut the lines for the rides, they let Stiles have the biggest funnel cake (which he then can’t eat) and Derek holds his hand the entire time.

They are sitting at one of the outside tables next to the vendors and Stiles is picking at his cake, throwing furtive glances Derek's way. Derek catches them, of course. He is holding his chin against his hand, bright lights of the fair surrounding him in colorful halo, and Stiles thinks how he looks very handsome tonight. Derek smirks. "Penny for your thoughts. . ."

Stiles wants to ask him about his family. He wants to ask him about his relationship history, but he doesn't dare. When he really thinks about it, he realizes it would be best to let Derek tell him about those things at his own time.

"When you came to my house, then. . . You said that Scott's party wasn't the first time that you had seen me. When was it?"

Derek's expression closes off. Stiles drops his gaze, but after a few moments of silence, Derek starts talking. "It was six years ago. I remember the exact date. The time. The place. You must have been around twelve. . . I was eighteen. Your father arrested me, and I was sitting handcuffed to the bench near a police officer's desk. I wasn't guilty, I hadn't done what the Sheriff thought I did, but I didn't care. . . I didn't even try to defend myself. I was at a very dark place. I _wanted_ to go to prison and let myself die there, packless, worthless. And then I saw you. You were looking straight at me through the glass door of the Sheriff's office, a serious expression on your face. I remember looking at your big, doe eyes and it felt like salvation. Then you pressed your face against the glass and got your nose and mouth all squished. . . and I laughed. I had no idea who you were until the Sheriff yelled at you to stop licking the glass because he was tired of scraping your dried up snot every time you came. I presumed you were his kid then. I couldn't stop looking at you. I _knew_ what you were to me right away. . . half-instinctually, half based on the stories my parents used to tell me. And then it really hit me, the entire situation. There I was, at the lowest point of my life, finding out that I had a mate who was a child and who I couldn't have. . . and who was the son of the man who accused me of murdering my own sister."

Stiles gasps at his final words.

Derek looks at him with steel in his eyes. " _Don't_. You don't want to know. I don't want you to know. . . I don't want to sully you with my filth."

Stiles stares at him, unable to look away. He sees only him, they are alone in this warm night. Derek stretches his arm and touches Stiles' face, gossamer soft. . . Stiles shivers. "You know, you haven't changed much," Derek whispers. His fingers caress Stiles' cheek. "You are so beautiful. Your skin is clear like porcelain and soft as silk. . . and your mouth," Derek brushes his thumb across Stiles' bottom lip. "I want you so much."

Stiles' face bursts aflame. Derek smiles. "Although you being omega, so young and innocent, makes this endeavor of courtship more challenging, I love it. Your innocence is very precious to me. You blush so easily, an extremely rare characteristic nowadays. . . It tells me everything I need to know about you. And the fact that no one has ever touched you. . . and that no one ever will but me. . . makes me. . . " Derek can't finish his sentence. He's gripping the edge of the table, his knuckles white, and he closes his eyes in an effort to compose himself.

There's an entire picnic table between them, and Stiles feels equally ruined. Short, sharp breaths escape him and his body is on fire. He can't believe that Derek can enchant him so much, _seduce him_ , with his words alone. At this point, he wants to throw himself across the table and let Derek do whatever he wants to him. "Derek," he pants.

Derek raises his finger. "A second more, please." Slowly, he calms. He stands up. "I'm going to get you some water, and then we'll walk some more around the fair."

And so, Stiles starts to think that maybe, maybe, he could relax and allow himself to have this. Everybody knows Derek, he sees that now. Everybody smiles at Stiles, just because he is with him. They walk, and Derek lets go of his hand only to hold him around his shoulders, pulling him gently against his warm body, kissing Stiles' temple and hair every few steps. He makes him feel cherished. He asks him all about his dad, Scott, school, and life in general. 

When Derek kisses him on top of the Ferris wheel, Stiles kisses him back. It’s exciting, and he doesn’t freak out when Derek bites his bottom lip a little, swiping the spot with his tongue afterwards. His entire body thrums with adrenaline, stirring for the first time in mature desire.

Derek takes him back home at decent time. They stand together behind the bougainvillea in the front yard, Derek holding his both hands. Stiles desperately wants Derek to touch him.

“Tomorrow’s the pack meeting,” Derek says, so close to him that Stiles can feel his hot breath on his face. His mind is hazy and he can barely hear what Derek's saying. “Would you like to come? I would really like that. I want to introduce you to everybody.”

Stiles is not fond of parties and gatherings, but he feels that this is important if he wants to be with Derek. So he agrees. “Is there anything particular I need to say or do?”

Derek smiles and hugs him, gently, always mindful of their size difference. Stiles melts in his embrace, inhales his irresistible scent. “No. I’ll have someone pick you up, Scott probably, that’d be most convenient,” he murmurs and then lifts Stiles' chin and kisses him, licking into Stiles’ mouth for real this time. Stiles’ knees give out and Derek grabs him more firmly, groaning. “I can’t get enough of you. I want you, so much.”

Stiles flings his arms around Derek’s neck, small, gasping breaths bursting out of him. He doesn’t know what’s happening, he’s never experienced something like this before. “Do you want me, little one? I have to remind myself to take it slow, not to rush into anything. . . You’re so pure, so innocent. . . My little precious.”

Stiles buries his head in Derek’s chest and tries to calm down. He’s embarrassed, he knows that Derek can feel his desire against his body, but he makes himself stay there, lets Derek press them even harder together. “Soon, darling, and you’ll be really mine. All mine.”

Derek kisses him once more, soft, chaste press of parting lips, and then releases him. “Tomorrow?”

Stiles is all flushed and overwhelmed, and he needs all his willpower to part ways with Derek tonight. He somehow manages, nods and smiles, looking Derek in the eyes. “Tomorrow,” he promises, and then he runs inside his house before he does anything stupid, like beg Derek to come upstairs with him.

He has officially lost his mind.

\---

Scott comes to pick him up around seven the next day, in his mom's car. The weather is perfect so the car windows are down. The road takes them outside of the city center, and it runs parallel to the woods until at some point Scott turns left. The asphalt cuts there and the earth road begins. Stiles has never been to these parts. Scott doesn't adjust his speed so Stiles bounces in the seat, trying to complain but Scott is too busy singing with the radio. When they arrive, Stiles presses his cheeks with his hands. "I think you've knocked out a few of my teeth," he whines, but Scott's already out, greeting Derek in some mysterious pack way that just includes a lot of intense staring, if you ask Stiles.

He takes his time getting out of the car because he is a little uncertain how to behave now, at Derek's home, in front of his pack. But, when he looks at Derek, the man has spread his arms towards him and Stiles nearly trips on his own feet before he throws himself in Alpha's arms. Derek sticks his nose where Stiles' neck meets his shoulder and scents him until his skin breaks out in goosebumps. "Come on, baby. They know you're coming. They're waiting."

The house is big and sturdy, and freshly renovated, too, because Stiles registers new furniture, shiny floors and fresh paint. The living room, or the pack room how Stiles instantly renames it, is filled with sofas, armchairs and bean bags. And filled with people. To his delight, Stiles realizes he isn't as nearly anxious as he expected - not when Derek's standing next to him. 

“Stiles, this is Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Alison, Jackson and Liam. This is my sister Cora and my uncle Peter. You already know Scott. They’re my family. My pack. Pack, it is with great pleasure and honor that I can introduce to you Stiles, my mate.”

They all look at him with unbridled curiosity like he is a rare, tropical bird, and Stiles hovers between Derek and Scott, uncertain what to say or do. Then one by one, they stand up and shake his hand, human style. Stiles did not expect that. He realizes that they're doing it that way in respect to his species. He clears his throat. "Um, nice to meet you, everyone. Should I," he looks at Derek for help. "I don't know. Scent everybody now?" A moment of stunned silence follows, and when Derek starts laughing first, all werewolves dissolve into fit of giggles. Except Peter, who only smiles.

"You're cute," Cora tells him. Stiles blushes and hides behind Derek's shoulder. "I thought. . ." he whispers into Derek's shirt. Derek chuckles again and takes his face in his hand. "I know what you thought. It's all right, baby. It was very sweet. You don't have to do anything, just, let's sit, here," he says and takes Stiles towards one of the sofas. 

“Well,” Peter speaks first, “that was lovely. So happy for you both. Congratulations to the happy couple. But now we have serious pack business to attend to.”

Derek glowers at his uncle, but he doesn't say anything, which probably means that it's true.

“Kate's up and about. My source has some new info,” Peter says casually, inspecting his nails. Stiles feels Derek tensing up next to him and he tenses up as well in response. “She’s been scouting biochemical labs,” Peter continues, “for a few months now. And when I say biochemical, I mean top security, maximum bio-hazard danger, biological weapon stuff.”

Stiles silently mouths at Scott, "who's Kate?", but Scott shakes his head and Stiles gives up. He tries not to listen, because this is some scary stuff.

“I talked to dad, but he thinks she’s in the area on accident and that it has nothing to do with us,” Alison adds.

“Yeah, right,” Erica snorts. “I don’t trust Chris as far as I can throw him, and besides, she sure isn’t searching the labs because she needs a new fertilizer for her daisies.”

"On our territory by accident? Fat chance. She knows our borders better than some pack members. She knows _exactly_ what she's doing," Jackson says.

"It's one thing to know that the hunters are stocking up on wolfsbane. . . I _know_ wolfsbane, I know to avoid it and how to handle it, but this is some next level shit that she's pulling," Isaac says.

Everybody starts chirping in, and the room gets loud. Stiles' head ping-pongs from one werewolf to another.

Stiles pulls Derek’s sleeve a few times to get his attention. He wants to tell him that he can search online the biochemical labs’ systems and find out what Kate’s been looking for through algorithms, when Cora says, “Guys, guys, she’s definitely found what she’s wanted. She’s been spotted near the southwest border. And we know Gerard's already there.”

“What does she want?” Scott asks naively and Peter smirks. “Oh we all know exactly what and who she wants, and because of whom she’s here.”

Derek snarls at that, fury and rage exploding from him, right across Stiles’ upturned face, who was still trying to tell him something.

Stiles recoils, petrified, and falls on the sofa opposite from Derek, whimpering.

The entire room turns silent.

Stiles buries his face in the cushions, covers his head with his hands, trying to hide from everyone, trembling and crying.

Scott drops on his knees in front of his friend, hugging him from behind, and throws a menacing look Derek's way before he starts talking softly into Stiles’ hair. “Hey, buddy. You’re okay, come on. Don’t cry, please,” Scott whispers, caressing Stiles’ back. “Come on, buddy, let’s go home, let me take you home.”

Derek almost starts to growl again, but Peter grabs him by the arm, as the only one who dares, and shakes his head. Derek’s chest is heaving, and when Scott brings Stiles up on his feet, walking him out of the house, Derek shifts completely and his eyes blaze red, but he doesn’t follow them.

When they get out of the hearing distance, he picks up the heavy mahogany table and smashes it against the wall.

\---

Scott helps Stiles clean up and change, and then puts him to bed.

“You know he’s a werewolf, right? An alpha, no less. That’s what we do, we roar and snarl. He can’t help it. It’s like forbidding a rooster to crow or a dog to bark.”

Stiles’ face is still pale and swollen from crying. “You don’t snarl at me,” he whispers.

Scott rolls his eyes. “Well, it’s because I know it scares you. And he didn’t snarl at you, really. You know that, don’t you?”

Stiles clutches his comforter and nods. “I hate that I am so weak.”

“Don’t say that, don’t do that. Some creatures are sent on this earth to be strong and vicious predators, like lions and wolves, and some to be beautiful and lovely, like butterflies and humming birds. You’re the prettiest butterfly, Stiles.”

That elicits a small smile from Stiles.

Scott sniffs. "It's a touchy subject for him. You really don't know who Kate Argent is?"

Stiles shakes his head. "Who is she?"

"I can't tell you that, I'm sorry. It has to be him. But, he didn't tell you, and I don't understand why he invited you to the pack meeting without telling you some stuff."

Stiles turns his head away.

Scott sighs, and runs his fingers through Stiles' hair. ”Do you want me to tell him to take a hike and never come near you again? Because I so will if you want me to. He needs to learn how to behave around omegas, especially you.”

“No, I think. . . I should tell him that.”

“So. . . you’ve decided? You’ll end things between you?”

Stiles shrugs. “I should. I don’t know.”

“You know I’m on your side. I will always be on your side,” Scott sighs. “But, he thinks you’re his mate, buddy. Which probably means that you really are. I don’t know what’ll happen if you turn him down now. Something terrible, he may lose his mind. I haven’t learned about that part of werewolves’ nature yet.”

Stiles blinks at him. “Well, what should I do? He scared me, and I left, and I'm humiliated. . . I don’t want to see him right now.”

Stiles can't even think about how utterly pathetic and worthless he feels right now. And he's terrified of facing John, god knows what he'll do.

“Do you guys talk on the phone? Text?”

“We haven’t so far.”

“Well, he does have a phone. Can I give him your phone number? And I promise I’ll talk to him, too, make some best friend of the boyfriend obligatory threats.”

Stiles agrees, hesitantly. Scott stays a long time after that, caressing his hair. “I love you, buddy. It’ll all work out, you’ll see,” Stiles hears him say right before the land of dreams claims him.

\---

John knows something’s wrong as soon as Stiles comes down for breakfast the next morning.

Stiles hates that with the passion of a thousand fiery suns. He grabs his cereal and milk and joins his dad at the table anyway.

John looks at him over his glasses and flips his newspaper. “Do I need to clean my gun and bring out wolfsbane bullets?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Son?”

“No, dad, you don’t,” Stiles rolls his eyes and props his chin with his hand.

“All right. If you say so, I believe you. I won’t even ask what happened. I know you’re smart enough to handle dangerous situations.” John keeps staring at him and when Stiles doesn’t say anything, John adds, “Right?”

Stiles huffs. “Right, dad.”

“I told you a million times – we always have options. And we’ll always choose what’s best for you. School couldn’t keep you safe, we switched to online learning. If that alpha isn’t good for you, he can be alpha a million times over, I’ll fill his ass with wolfsbane bullets so fast he won’t know what hit him. Okay?”

“Okay, dad.”

“And I don’t care what mumbo-jumbo werewolf bullshit about mates and stuff he spews, you hear me? We’ll find you a nice boy to settle down with. Like Scott.”

“Dad! I told you a million times, he’s like a brother to me. I don’t feel like that about him.”

“I’m just saying. Any nice boy. Or no boy at all, who says you have to have someone? No one, that’s who. Only Valentine card sellers and stupid advertisements. Leeches, the lot of them. It’s all business, let me tell you.”

“You loved mom.”

John sighs. “I did, son, so much. I still do.”

Stiles picks at the tablecloth. “What if Derek’s right, what if I’m really his mate and I ruin everything by being too weak, or too stupid to see it?”

His father shakes his head and Stiles thinks that he gave him at least ten new wrinkles today. “I don’t know, son. All I know, that if it’s right, you’ll know it. You have to. Otherwise, there’s no point.”

They hug it out over the table, as usual; Stiles goes upstairs to do his homework and John goes to work.

He's sitting idly in front of his computer, trying to find inspiration to write an essay about Napoleon, when his phone pings with the incoming message.

Stiles frowns at the unknown number and he doesn't dare hope it's Derek.

>>> _‘I’m sorry’_

>>> _‘it’s Derek btw’_

>>> _‘Scott gave me your number’_

>>> _‘I’m really sorry for scaring you, and for snarling at you, please forgive me’_

>>> _'it's all my fault'_

Stiles gets all excited and jittery. He paces around the room, thankful, for he thinks he understands his father's words now. He _knows_ now, and not with his brain, which still lectures and warns him, or his body, which doesn't think or do anything much except yearns and desires, but with his very essence, his soul, if you will, that he won't leave Derek, that he wants to be with him despite everything frightening or wrong with their relationship, that he most probably loves him. Love's not cerebral, or sexual, he realizes, but spiritual.

He starts typing out his response immediately.

<‘I forgive you, of course, but that’s the least of our problems’

> _‘What do you mean?’_ Derek sends right back.

<‘I got scared and freaked out, I cried for two hours. I can’t do that every time you do your alpha things’

A minute passes without any response from Derek and Stiles starts to fidget, but then several messages ping one after the other.

> _‘Stiles’_

> _‘I wish I could promise to you I will never do it again’_

> _‘but it’s instinctual for me, sometimes I can’t control it’_

<‘I know’, Stiles replies. ‘I will try, though. I can promise you that. I need to learn how to accept it’

Stiles sends a smiley face. He almost manages not to feel embarrassed by that, but then Derek sends a kissy emoji back.

Oh lord, they’re both too pathetic.

> _'I can't tell you how terrified I was'_

>' _I thought that I lost you'_

> _'I'll never forgive myself''_

Stiles' hand shakes, and he barely manages to type. He doesn't know what to say, because he doesn't want to say anything big over a text message.

<'I'm in too deep'

> _‘Will you ever let me see you again? Please?’_

<‘Probably’ Stiles texts back, honestly. That’s the best he can offer at this point.

> _‘THANK YOU xxx’_ Derek sends, and Stiles hugs his phone to his chest.

\---

Stiles recovers over the next few days, secluded in his house and avoiding getting emotional. Derek texts him constantly, and sends crazy gifts to his house, like complete works of J.R.R. Tolkien, or a three-tier chocolate cake, to John’s utmost delight.

Scott comes over almost every day, plays games with Stiles and waxes poetic how Derek feels horrible about what happened, and he surely will never do it again because Scott’s read all literature on werewolf mating and they all say that mates would never hurt each other.

Stiles nods amicably and chuckles, but frankly, he is starting to think that Scott isn't a very reliable source on werewolf matters; and that whichever books on werewolf biology, history and tradition exist out there, they shouldn't be accepted as gospel and without involving critical thinking.

He misses Derek and he wants to see him, but he still feels that this interlude is beneficial for both of them. He manages to reassure Derek that he's not leaving him because Derek repeats that sentiment during each conversation, in one way or another.

Most importantly, Derek doesn't pressure Stiles, which is something that he hadn't been aware he was doing before. He must have realized that it bothers Stiles and he is patiently waiting now, leaving the ball entirely in his court. When Stiles picks up on this, he decides that it's time they moved things along.

<'Hey. My dad's working graveyard shift tomorrow. How do you feel about Netflix and popcorn here with me?

>' _@!$%5 &(6!!!*!'_

> _'WHAT TIME'_

Stiles laughs. <'Eight?'

> _'I'LL BE THERE'_

> _'I FUCKING LOVE YOU, YOU KNOW THAT'_

Shouty capitals, what has he reduced his poor werewolf to, Stiles thinks, smiling. 

He decides not only to make popcorn, but to also make his special peanut butter cookies for Derek. He rushes downstairs to see if he has all the ingredients or if he has to make a trip to the store. He rummages through the pantry and cupboards, finding all he needs, and leaves everything on the counter so that he can start baking immediately when it's time. He looks around the downstairs and suddenly decides to clean. He wants everything to be perfect. He vacuums, dusts and scrubs almost until midnight.

In the morning, he jumps out of his bed like electrocuted. He changes his sheets, blushing like crazy. Because if things start going in that direction, Stiles won't stop them. He wants Derek, he wants to have sex with him. Oh god, he might lose his virginity tonight. 

Somewhere around midday, in the middle of him freaking out about what to wear, he realizes that Derek hasn't texted him the entire morning. He checks his phone, but no, no new messages. It unsettles him, because for the past ten days, Derek hasn't missed a single day to wish him good morning, to ask him about his night, and his plans for the day.

He thinks that he's probably excited about tonight, or just busy with something. They will see each other in a few hours.

But, it keeps bugging him, so he decides to text him instead.

<'I hope you're allergic to peanuts. So that I get to eat all the cookies myself:)'

Derek doesn't respond. Not right after Stiles sends the message, not an hour, or two hours later.

Stiles stops checking his phone, goes to the kitchen and focuses on mixing the batter for the cookies. When he arranges them all on the baking sheet, he covers them with a clean cloth and leaves them there for the batter to rest. He goes back upstairs to shower, but his stomach is filled with dread.

Something feels wrong. He washes his body absently, and he almost wants to cry because the dread has replaced his previous excitement. But he cleans himself thoroughly, and shaves, everywhere.

He dries himself up, dresses, and goes downstairs to put the cookies in the oven. They take only ten minutes to bake, so he stays next to the stove and takes them out when they're done.

Then he sits and waits. 

Eight o'clock comes and goes. Stiles watches the old wooden clock on the wall without blinking. Time goes by maddeningly slowly.

At nine, he goes up to his bedroom. He checks his phone. No new messages. He sits on his bed for an hour.

At ten, he undresses himself and goes to bed in complete darkness, numb with fear and bitter disappointment.

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he must have; something wakes him up in the dead of the night. He hears a hard thump outside his window and he sits up in his bed, alarmed.

It can't be Scott, he would never come at this time.

He tries to look out the window, but he can’t see anything, it’s pitch black outside. Something rustles again, and he gets up and comes to the window. 

When he sees it’s Derek, he smiles in relief, his heart lurching happily in his chest. He reaches out for the handle to pull the window open, to let him in, but his mind registers that something is wrong.

He looks through the window again, into the darkness, and takes a good look at Derek’s face staring at him. Derek’s not smiling. He doesn’t look happy to see Stiles at all, and he should.

Stiles’ smile drops. His hand hesitates. He watches like in slow motion as Derek brings his hand to the bottom of the frame, and sees his claw flicking the window open with ominous ease.

Stiles steps back.

Derek slowly lifts the window open and jumps gracefully inside.

Something’s wrong.

“Derek,” Stiles whispers.

Derek doesn’t say anything.

First tendrils of panic grip him, and he slowly moves away from Derek. “Wh-what’s wrong?” he stutters.

That seems to piss Derek off, because his nostrils flare and he tilts his head to the side. He looks at Stiles like he would at a cockroach. “Someone was here,” he growls.

“What? Derek,” Stiles gasps, scared to death, thinking frantically what the hell Derek even means and if this is one more instance of regular alpha behavior that Stiles needs to get used to.

Derek snarls viciously, rattling the windows and the doors until they almost fall off the hinges.

Stiles’ eyes fill with tears and he feels panic consume him.

“Aw, are you crying again, little one? Did I scare you? I am so sorry, from now on, I’ll only WHISPER AROUND YOU,” Derek roars.

Stiles’ back hits the door and he collapses down, burying his face in his hands.

But Derek grabs him like a sack of potatoes and lifts him up, banging him against the door roughly.

Stiles’ head hits the hard wood and crippling pain explodes inside him. His vision starts swimming.

“WHO WAS IT, HUH?” Derek spits and snarls an inch from his face.

Stiles shakes his head, blind with tears, mute, and Derek slaps him across his face, hard. "You fucking liar."

His lip splits immediately and he falls down, sliding across the floor until the wall stops him. His mouth fills with blood.

He scrambles against the wall to make himself as small as he can.

“No one, you say. You think you can lie to me? How stupid are you?” Derek kneels next to him and pushes his head harder against the wooden floor. “I can smell it, you know. I KNOW that smell.”

Stiles feels his cheekbone splitting open. Blood flows from his mouth and face onto the floor, and Derek grinds even harder.

He’s going to kill me, a faraway part of Stiles’ mind thinks, but he can’t move, he can’t do anything.

He hears a wolf howling outside and it brings him out of the stupor, clears the fog in his mind a little.

Derek is back on his feet, prowling around the room, almost fully shifted. “My little one. My precious. You’re nothing but a whore like the rest of them. Who wants to destroy me.”

Stiles sees his backpack lying on the floor under the desk. He has wolfsbane laced pepper spray inside. If he could reach just one strap, he could pull the bag toward him without Derek noticing. But he can’t see well, one of his eyes is completely closed.

He tries anyway, straightening one arm slowly and pawing left and right across the floor in the hopes of reaching any part of the bag with his fingertips.

For a second he fails to be aware of Derek’s presence and then he sees Derek’s boot stepping on his arm.

“What do you think you are doing, baby?” Derek murmurs, and presses, and he doesn't even need to press much at all before Stiles’ arm snaps with a crunch and Stiles screams in agony.

Several things happen at the same time.

One, Stiles’ door bangs open, revealing John with a gun in his hand. It takes him a nanosecond to assess the situation and he shoots immediately, filling Derek’s chest with wolfsbane. Derek falls like a tree and in cosmic irony, his head ends up right next to Stiles'.

Two, Scott jumps into the room through the open window, in his shifted form, snarling like a beast; he presses his claws against Derek’s throat. Stiles sees Derek's blood trickling out of his wounds, and mixing on the floor with his own.

And three, before either Scott or his dad can reach him, Stiles finally passes out, falling into the dark abyss of unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles is not surprised when he wakes up in hospital, body numb and throat parched, shivering. There’s no one around his bed; he is alone. Even though he doesn't want to, he starts making inventory of his physical condition. His right arm is in cast and he feels that he has some kind of bandaging on his head. He can open both eyes, which is awesome - so he keeps blinking, pleased that he can perform such a simple action. And that he hasn’t lost an eye, which he remembers was a distinct possibility.

He doesn’t feel any acute pain anywhere on his body except a dull, throbbing discomfort somewhere on the left side of his rib cage. He knows that it's because he is probably heavily medicated, and that if the steady flow of painkillers stops, he would be aching all over. He is incredibly thirsty, and cold – that would be his first and biggest complaint, if anyone asked. He has been under total anesthesia before, for his tonsil removal (his doctors didn’t want to take chances doing it with only local anesthesia because they thought Stiles would faint, or have a panic attack), so he knows why his throat feels like someone scrubbed it with sandpaper, and why he’s shivering even though he is covered.

There's no one around to bring him some water. He tries to lick his lips, but even his tongue is dry, sticky and stiff as a piece of wood, and it feels unpleasant when it rubs against his palate, the soft insides of his cheeks. He touches the end of something pointy and sharp with the tip of his tongue – it’s probably a stitch. He almost snorts; he has forgotten about his torn lip. Briefly, he wonders if it’ll scar, but then realizes that he really doesn’t care. He won’t be entering any beauty contests, or become a Hollywood star, that’s for sure.

The room is dim, the blinds on the windows pulled down. Stiles figures that it must be nighttime. Why the nurses always do that, close the blinds when the night comes, is beyond him – hospital rooms are claustrophobic enough without it, and especially when you can’t see glimpses of normal life going on outside; as if lives don’t begin, and end, and get shattered here, just a short distance from the sidewalk.

Someone is dying here, right at this moment, Stiles knows; and outside, someone else is pissed because their coffee is too cold, or because they lost their phone.

The door swishes open and Melissa comes in, wearing her trademark blue scrubs, and Stiles smiles involuntarily - it ends up in him whimpering.

“Oh, honey, careful, careful,” she urges and walks quickly to his side.

“It hurts to smile,” Stiles whimpers, his face throbbing with pain.

She is not checking the machines, or his vital signs, like Stiles expects; instead, she’s watching him, her lovely dark eyes filled with motherly love and concern. “I know, I know, but hey, you’re awake! That’s amazing, honey. You must be thirsty, let me get you some water, and fetch a doctor for you.”

Before she leaves his side, she brushes a lock of hair from his forehead. “I am so happy to see you. Everything’s going to be fine, you’ll see,” she says, and Stiles just. . . he breaks down. He blinks, fat tears rolling down his cheeks in quick succession, ending up in his ears and hair. That’s what Scott used to tell him, over and over again, and Stiles believed him.

_You’ll see, everything’s going to be fine. Nothing’s going to change. . . It’ll all work out, you’ll see. . ._

Melissa’s face crumbles and it makes Stiles feel horrible. Her words were loving, just like Scott’s, meant to comfort him and make him feel better, so Stiles tries to console her. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m fine. Just. . . remembering something. I’m fine, really.”

She gives him a soft smile and busies herself around his bed. She fetches another sheet from the bottom of the bedside table and lays it over him. “I don’t know how Scott can sleep in that position, he’ll throw out his back.”

“He’s here?” Stiles wonders.

“Oh, you didn’t see him? He’s right there, honey,” she points towards the corner of the room opposite the windows. Stiles had no idea.

There, slumped in a plastic hospital chair, limbs akimbo, his head tipped backwards and his mouth open, Scott is sleeping like the dead. Melissa approaches her son and pats him on his cheek. Scott mumbles something but he does wake up, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Mom.”

“Hey, look who’s up,” Melissa tells him and Scott’s head jerks towards the bed immediately. When he sees Stiles looking at him, he breaks out into goofiest, happiest sleepy smile that Stiles has ever seen.

Stiles' heart warms at the familiarity of it. He realizes that he doesn’t need Scott and Melissa to tell him that everything is going to be all right. He knows it will.

\---

John paces across his office like a caged lion, checking his watch once again; it’s five to six.

It’s time.

He opens the door, and sees that all his officers and deputies are there, regardless of whether they're on shift or not. They're all aware of the delicacy of the situation. 

“Conference room, everybody,” John announces, heading there first without waiting for anybody.

The room turns into a beehive. The policemen check their desks, collecting their files and notes, and move down the hall towards the conference room where they hold all their large meetings and on occasion, training programs and professional development seminars.

John enters first and stands at the lectern, just until he opens the meeting. Greta rushes after him with a glass of orange juice. It annoys him to no end, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell her off. They've been working together over fifteen years. She looks at him as if she’s daring him to refuse; she’s been mother-henning him ever since. . . well.

John knows that he looks like at least a decade of his life has been shaved off. So he frowns, but he picks up the glass and drains it in one go. “There,” he hands her the empty glass petulantly and she grins, leaving them to their work while she goes back to man the front desk.

John starts. “This is the Stilinski-Hale case study. We'll review the reports, make fresh suggestions, and continue to build the case. We’ve had six teams working on it so far. I'll name only officers in charge. Deputy Parrish on the Argents, detective Horvath on the Hale pack, Somerset on Derek Hale specifically. I’ll read my own report, and Mills here has reports on my son and Scott McCall.”

The room is eerily quiet.

John clears his throat. “All right. Are we recording? I’ll go first.”

When he gets the clearance, he begins. “On November 2nd I was at the station working on a night shift when one of the security alarms in my house went off. They are programmed to go directly here. The time, 01.34 AM. I checked the camera system. There are nine cameras installed, three of which in my son’s bedroom.”

John takes off his glasses and rubs his nose. “You all know why. I don’t think I have to explain myself. But, for the record, I have an omega son.”

He continues. “The video footage showed a man, who I identified immediately as Derek Hale, Alpha of the Beacon Hills pack, enter my son’s room through the window. I continued watching because I was worried about my son’s safety even though the two were then in a romantic relationship. I saw Derek Hale push Stiles roughly against the door. Then I saw him hit Stiles in the face. I didn’t inform anyone. It was a time-sensitive situation. I drove there in the police vehicle. It took me approximately seven minutes. I took my gun and wolfsbane bullets from the safe where I keep my licenced private firearms, loaded the gun and opened the door to my son’s bedroom. Stiles was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. His mouth, face and head were covered in split wounds and blood. His arm was broken which could be seen clearly. I shot Hale in the chest. I called the team on duty. The rest is in their report.”

Police attorney Davis takes over. “In human-werewolf cases, special laws apply. By shooting the werewolf in the chest, the Sheriff was aiming to incapacitate, but not to kill. In order to kill a werewolf on the spot with a wolfsbane bullet, one needs to shoot in the head, which did not happen. Furthermore, it was clear that Stiles' life was in danger. This is a clear case of justified use of police force and firearms. Not to mention, the Sheriff is Stiles’ father and the violence happened in his own house. Necessary self-defense was employed. Also, we’ll build the domestic abuse points as well, because even though Hale and Stiles are not married, Hale was officially courting him. There is evidence of him asking the Sheriff for permission and officially declaring his courtship to his pack.”

“Mills, Scott McCall,” John orders, stepping away from the lectern and sitting at the desk.

Officer Mills flips his files open. “Scott McCall, 18, is the latest addition to the Hale pack. He received the bite last month. He is also Stiles’ best friend. On the night of the accident, he jumped through Stiles’ bedroom window and clawed the alpha across his throat. He didn’t aim to kill, because in order to do that, a werewolf needs to tear the entire throat out, larynx, pharynx and trachea. Whether McCall knew that or not, we still don’t know. Born werewolves all do, but he is a young, new one. We have another interrogation scheduled for tomorrow. But, we have reason to think that he did not aim to kill. Regarding his actions prior to this event, and how he knew that Stiles was in danger, McCall claimed pack immunity.”

Davis explains. “That simply means that it is a pack-related situation which can affect the pack and its members, so the statement will be joined and official. It does not mean that McCall can get away from making one.”

“Scott is currently with my son as a guardian. Detective Horvath?” John calls the next officer.

Detective Carl Horvath is the oldest officer at the department and John’s most trusted employee. Everyone watches him with respect as he takes over the meeting. He speaks slowly, with the dignity and gravitas of a man who knows a lot. “I spoke with Peter Hale primarily. My partner, Mills, interviewed all the other pack members. The Hale pack is willing to cooperate fully.” Carl Horvath doesn’t read from his files. “To prequel this, I need to say that the feud between the pack and the Argents is long-lasting, but the serious conflict started six years ago. The Hales, that is, the remaining members of the family, believe that the hunters Kate and Gerard Argent are responsible for the deaths of their family in a fire, which we were unable to prove then, as you remember. Talia, the then alpha, her husband Jonathan, daughter Laura, her husband James, their children Lilly and Jonah, Peter’s wife Olivia, their daughter Malia, and the youngest child of Jonathan and Talia, son Taylor – all born werewolves except Olivia who was human, and Jonathan who received the bite from Talia shortly after their marriage – they all burned in their house. The survivors are Peter Hale, Talia’s brother, who managed to recover from severe burns, and Talia’s son and daughter Derek and Cora Hale who weren’t home that night by chance.”

Horvath takes a second. “Now, I know that this case is closed. I am two months away from my retirement. Allow me to use my experience, my professional instinct, but most of all, my common sense and ethics, to request that you reopen this case.”

John nods. “Duly noted. Please, continue, Carl.”

“The pack has been monitoring Kate’s movements closely for the past six years, for obvious reasons. Peter was very forthcoming in sharing with me what sources and methods they used. I am under the impression that he wanted to collaborate with the police, but we were legally prevented. The pack knew that she was preparing for another attack. Peter believes that her ultimate goal was destruction of Derek Hale, her general goal - wiping out the entire pack. He believes that she has a manic obsession with Derek, which escalated when she undoubtedly learned that Derek found his mate – the Sheriff’s son, Stiles. It is easy to imagine that, because one, Derek claimed Stiles as his mate publicly, two, she used to date him before the fire, and three, she's dedicated her life to destroying anything and everything related to Derek."

"Three days before the attack on Stiles Stilinski, two of their pack members disappeared, Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd. The whole pack searched for them. The day before the attack, Derek Hale disappeared. The one who found them, on the day of the attack, was Scott McCall. I believe the pack’s joined statement will cover these events. What we do know and have evidence for, is that Erica and Vernon were murdered, and that an attempt was made on Derek’s life. He was tortured and exposed to hallucinogenic toxins – forced to swallow, injected with, inserted anally – I have a list here. Tryptamines, phenethylamines, lysergamides, d-lysergic acid diethylamide, mixed with wolfsbane and other substances lethal for werewolves.”

Police attorney Davis clears his throat. “Very informative, but irrelevant for the Stilinski-Hale case. You’re trying to say Derek Hale didn’t know what he was doing when he beat Stiles and almost killed him? It won’t hold in court. He’s a werewolf, Stiles is human. Period. Standard defense procedures do not apply.”

“It doesn’t matter what procedures apply,” John says. “Derek refuses defense. He doesn't want a lawyer. He is pleading guilty and wants to accept his sentence without objection.”

“That young man,” Horvath speaks up, his calm demeanor leaving him. “Is going to get five years minimum, if you decide to go with charges for attempted murder. And with no defense, especially considering that the victim is the Sheriff’s son, he may get even more. But I’m telling you this – that young man was tortured and drugged by the woman who he believes brutally murdered his entire family, who murdered two of his pack members, and then was made, I believe by her, to kill his mate. I don’t know how yet, but I will find out. It would have been her ultimate victory, had she succeeded. She knew that Derek was destroyed after what she had done to his family. And if he had killed his mate? I can’t imagine a worse agony, a more terrifying horror for a werewolf. And you’re telling me it’s irrelevant? That it doesn’t matter?”

John’s face crumples. “Thank you, Carl. I. . . We need to build the case for the court. We can’t use defending arguments in our case.”

“I understand, John,“ Carl says. ”And I’m talking to you now as a friend whom I’ve known for twenty years – you’re rushing this thing. Lives are in question here, not only justice and law. The lives of two young men, one of whom is your son. The pack is in danger. Kate is on the loose. I have two questions for you. First, what do you think was Derek’s motive? Why do you think he did it, beat your son? You _don’t_ have an answer. No one does. And second, what do you think will happen after you get this thing in court, and you know that you will. They’re mates, John. Derek’s refusing defense and he’ll probably starve himself to death in prison. And as for your son, I don’t know. I’ve spoken with Dr. Deaton, who is an expert on werewolf physiology and psychology. Humans in a mating pair also suffer from grave consequences when the mating bond breaks.”

“Stiles is. . . He is fine. He’s still in hospital,” John says. “Mills, can you read the doctors’ report now?”

Mills is a young, good-looking guy who looks like he doesn't belong here, but he's actually a good detective. “Sure. Skull fracture in two places, but no brain hemorrhage or swelling. Concussion. Broken right cheekbone. Torn upper lip. Bruised ribs, and broken right arm. No internal bleeding. Bruises and scrapes on the skin. He had a surgery for the skull, which has been stapled. It went well. His arm has been fixed and is in cast, he got three stitches on his lip. Um, his ribs and his concussion need rest. Oh, and he’ll need therapy, physical for his arm, and psychological for trauma. And he’ll also need extended therapy with Dr. Deaton because of the mating situation.”

“Thank you, Mills. Somerset, Derek Hale.”

Detective Somerset nods. “He refuses to talk. He’s in custody, waiting for his trial. He also refuses to eat, will only take water. He let our doctors examine him when he first arrived. He had a gunshot wound in his chest and torn ligaments in his neck. The wounds from the gunshot are healed, as are the ones inflicted to him by McCall. They also found traces of toxins in his digestive system, and brain and spinal fluid. The only reason they could detect it was because the wolfsbane from the bullet had slowed down his healing. He also had internal electrical burns, damaged spleen, lungs and liver; rectal damage and two torn veins in his arm. All consequences of torture by Kate Argent. Doctors presume the injuries were much more serious the day prior. He refuses any sort of therapy.”

“All right. Parish, you were working on the Argents.” John says.

“Correct. All data we have on the Argents are provided by Peter Hale, and Chris Argent, Kate’s brother. I double-checked, of course, but since they’re not considered essential for the Stilinski-Hale case, I had limited sources."

John nods, so Parish resumes. "There are traces of her ordering special chemical substances from the Lacame Laboratories in Portland, Oregon, and Alfakleen Chemical Labs in Costa Mesa, California. We believe, but still cannot prove, that she has made the concoctions herself, special mixtures that she has been working on. Peter and Chris are on that. She also must have some kind of workspace somewhere. Gerard supports her mainly financially, and by providing men and weaponry.”

John stands up. Only decades of professional experience help him remain on his feet. He is exhausted, both mentally and physically. “Good job, everyone. Keep working on your assignments. Our legal team is building the case. Parrish, I’m giving you more resources. Take Sanchez and Bueller to help you with the Argent case. Try to locate Kate. Horvath, see if you can get Derek to talk to you. Get visitation passes for Cora and Peter. And Mills, find me the Hale fire files and leave them on my desk.”

He manages to reach his office, where he drops in his chair and lets his head fall on the desk. There, a smiling Stiles is watching him from one of the frames. John picks it up and hugs the photograph.

When the Hale fire files arrive the next day, John buries them under a pile. He really doesn't have time nor the energy to deal with that right now.

\---

Days go by, one faster than the other.

Stiles is fine. He understands why everyone fusses, but he really _is_ fine, as he keeps telling everyone. He is happy he is alive. He doesn’t want to talk about what happened, which he thinks is perfectly understandable. It was a mistake that will never happen again.

He doesn’t blame himself for it. He blames Scott a little, because he thinks that he was a crucial instigator at some points in the chain of the events (he introduced him to Derek without asking, he encouraged him to enter in a relationship with him, he kept convincing him over and over again that Derek would never hurt him). But, he can’t tell him that, can he, because Scott doesn’t deserve it, and also because he does. Not. Want. To talk. About it.

Stiles doesn't understand how he feels exactly. His mind tells him that he should hate Derek - he doesn't. His heart tells him that he should feel hurt and betrayed - he's not. It's a bit disconcerting, but Stiles doubts that he's become a sociopath - it's like his soul is suspended in an emotional limbo and doesn't know which door to open. There's a blank space where their story used to live in him, and Stiles wants to turn the leaf. He ascribes it to his general lack of experience and calls it a day.

He is almost fully healed. He doesn’t even need physical therapy for his arm; Dr. Morel observes him patiently, waiting, while he refuses to say anything and keeps staring out the window during his psychotherapy. He really doesn't care what she, or anyone else for that matter, has to say. Stiles has come out of this entire thing richer for one new personality trait for sure - he's stopped believing people. Who can blame him, when they were all wrong. The two most beloved people in his life, dad and Scott, who he had worshiped like gods and believed every word they said - well, suffice it to say he still loves them to pieces, but starts taking everything that comes out their mouth with a grain of salt.

So that's all great.

What is less than great is Dr. Deaton, who won’t take Stiles’ bullshit. He keeps telling Stiles that he isn’t fine. That he can’t be fine. Then talks about magic books and spells, ancient rituals, anchors, mates and what not. Stiles tunes him out when he starts droning like a preacher; what does he know, anyway. When Deaton notices that Stiles isn't listening, he makes him read out loud from some werewolf history book and Stiles wants to die of boredom. 

He tries to convince his dad that he doesn’t need sessions with Deaton, but John doesn’t even let him finish his sentence. Why would he need to talk, think or do anything about his so called ‘mate’ situation when he isn’t in one to begin with. Like Stiles has already said, that was a temporary, insane episode that he got roped in and which he is now blissfully out of. There’s nothing to talk about. John looks like he would agree with Stiles, but he can't for some reason. Stiles wonders if Deaton has some kind of power over his dad.

He is also not very happy with the situation at home. People start coming. First, Scott brings his new girlfriend, Allison. But she is nice, and she does puzzles with Stiles for hours. Stiles likes her. But, a few days after he got released from the hospital, Peter Hale comes in without so much as 'good evening, thanks for inviting me, you have a lovely house which I have never seen before', brings groceries and starts making dinner. He ignores Stiles' gawking, knows where everything is stored in their kitchen, and when Stiles frowns, he allots him with peeling and chopping duties.

And then he just keeps doing it, almost every day. With John’s blessing! Stiles knows that his dad is glad to finally have regular home cooked meals and that someone is taking care of Stiles when he’s gone, and he’s gone _a lot;_ but it feels weird, is all. Stiles himself stops complaining when Peter adds real cakes to their weekly menu, like Pavlova. Yum.

It takes Stiles two weeks to realize that the Hale pack has taken over everything at the Stilinski house. Isaac drives him to his psychotherapy. He waits for him outside Dr. Morel’s office for the entire hour and then drives him back home. Cora takes him to his sessions with Dr. Deaton. She also waits for him, and Stiles likes her better than Isaac because she always takes him for ice-cream afterwards. They talk; Cora has this easy, unassuming way about her which makes Stiles relax and not feel like she’s trying to help, or explain things to him. Stiles is sick and tired of people explaining things.

“Are they doing it because they feel guilty about what Derek did?” Stiles asks Scott one day, over their thousand-piece puzzle.

When Scott looks at him like he has no idea what he's saying, Stiles clarifies. “Taking care of me.”

“I don’t think so. They do feel guilty, I feel guilty, because we _are_ – but that’s not the reason they’re doing it.”

Stiles feels like the worst friend ever when he doesn’t say to Scott that it isn’t his fault. “Why then?”

“Because you’re Derek’s mate. You’re pack.”

Now this is downright insensitive and offending from Scott, Stiles thinks. “Well, I’m not any more, am I,” he shouts, and looks away, shocked by his outburst.

Scott frowns. “And for protection. Kate is still out there.”

Stiles sees red. He goes from curious to furious in less than a second. “Ah. The Hale pack nemesis. That I know nothing about!”

Scott lifts his hands, surprised. He has seen Stiles upset before, and alarmed, and maybe unsettled, but never angry. “Calm down, Stiles, please. I know, you’re right, you’re totally right. Do you want to know? I’ll tell you everything if you want.”

“Now you want to tell me. When it doesn’t even matter anymore! I asked you, didn’t I. No one ever tells me anything. Neither you, nor. . .” Stiles paces around the room like a caged animal.

Scott thinks about calling John, he is way out of his depth here.

“Okay. Shoot," Stiles plops down on the sofa and crosses his arms. "Tell me now. Just for funsies.”

“Are you calm?”

“Yes. I am calm as a clam, Scotty.”

Stiles does _not_ look or smell calm. Scott frowns at the obvious lie, but he weighs his options here – if he refuses to tell him now, he’s afraid that Stiles will really go berserk.

“Okay. So. Kate."

"Before I need a hip replacement and diapers for adults!"

Scott gets shocked into an incredulous giggle - this behavior is so unlike Stiles. He starts talking. "Kate and Derek used to date for a couple of months before the fire. She seduced him to learn what she needed to know about his family and then she burned them all. Derek and Cora escaped their faith by chance. Peter survived. She returned two months ago. She kidnapped and killed Erica and Boyd. Derek went looking for them, which she wanted. She was waiting for him. It was a trap. When he found them, she. . .”

Stiles makes a 'get on with it' motion with his hands, almost managing to feign indifference - he is pale as a sheet, perspiration gathering on his forehead. 

Scott gulps. “When Derek found them, she captured him and chained him to a metal table, tortured him with high voltage electricity. She filled him with toxic hallucinogenic drugs, also used magic items, that can transduce spells. We found one of your shirts there, covered in tar, some of my stuff, too, which was weird. Peter thinks she tried to convince him that you and I. . . that we were together, infiltrating into the pack to ruin it from the inside. They were both gone. Peter went to check the pack, and I. . . followed Derek’s scent. She has ways of covering it up. She is crazy. Dangerous. She sicced him like a dog on you. She. . . wanted him to kill you.”

Stiles sits, motionless. He doesn’t say anything. He looks petrified. Scott doesn't dare say anything more. He has really tried to stick to the facts alone this time; he feels guilty for having talked too much about his opinion before.

So he doesn't share with Stiles that Derek would have killed him if he wanted to, a hundred times over before either John or Scott arrived;

He doesn't tell him that the injuries Stiles sustained were inflicted upon him by a powerful alpha, out of his mind and anchor, tortured, pumped up with electricity, toxins and spells, and that such creature could demolish skyscrapers and annihilate half of Beacon Hills, let alone a tiny omega;

And he doesn't tell him that if Derek really wanted to crush his skull, nothing would have been left of it but a bloody stain, and if he really wanted to break his arm, it would have been severed from his shoulder. Unbelievably so, there _was_ a part of Derek's brain which kept an ounce of control that night. But all that notwithstanding, Scott cannot forgive and forget, so he doesn't say anything. 

“You know, I’m hungry," Stiles says. "Are you hungry, Scotty? I think I want a sandwich.” Stiles gets up and goes to the kitchen. “I’m making us sandwiches. How’s ham sound to you? And iceberg salad, and I’m thinking mayo.”

Scott lets him escape; maybe it's for the best. He stays in the living room, playing with the few puzzle pieces left, tossing and turning them in his hand. Stiles really has trouble processing everything, and Scott gets it. He is deep in denial.

Scott brings the pieces to his nose; they smell of Stiles, and faintly of Allison. He places them where they belong, and finishes the puzzle.

Stiles returns with a plate of sandwiches and freezes. “What did you do? Why?” he whispers, looking at Scott with disbelief and betrayal in his eyes. “I worked on that puzzle for days, Scott! Don’t you think that the one who worked the hardest on it should get to put the last piece!”

The plate drops to the ground, clattering, lettuce flying everywhere. Scott gets up; Stiles comes up to him and starts hitting him in the chest. “It’s not fair! It’s not fair! It’s not fair!”

Scott lets him punch him until his arms get tired; it’s like flapping of a bird’s wings to him. Stiles cries, but Scott doesn’t know how to comfort him or what to say anymore. Everything is such a mess. He doesn't see a way out of it.

He sees more than hears Peter enter the room, groceries in his arms. "What's going on?" Peter asks.

Stiles turns to him. "What's wrong with you people? Or should I say werewolves? Oh, you're so strong, so powerful, you have special skills -" Stiles screams, voice dripping with scorn and sarcasm. "You're nothing but a bunch of losers! Why would anyone want to be like you! Strong, my ass. . . you're so weak!" He runs to Peter and starts punching him in the chest. "What are you doing, what are you doing, Peter! Your family. . . and he's in prison and I. . ."

Peter holds him like a caged bird as Stiles cries inconsolably, and all he manages to do is turn to Scott and whisper to him to call Melissa. 

\---

At the Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, six people sit in a small office after hours - a concilium assembled to assess the current state of the affairs and to try to find a way out of this mess.

Dr. Morel starts first. “We’ve had twelve sessions so far. He still refuses to talk about what happened. Nothing has worked. I’ve tried cognitive behavioral, analytical, gestalt, solution-based. . . I suggest seeking another therapist.”

“His physical condition is excellent, he has a clean bill of health,” Melissa adds, hoping to add something positive and lighten the mood.

John buries his fingers in his hair and sighs.

“He’s changed,” Scott says. “He’s more argumentative, he starts fights over smallest things. . . He’s never been like that before. And somehow, he’s become. . . less sensitive, less soft? I don't know. He hates that we’re keeping him out of the loop. He wants to know things. He’s much more fearless."

"He's deep in denial," Morel adds.

Scott shakes his head. "I used to think that, too, but he's not - or not any longer. He knows much more than we give him credit for, he just doesn't want to share anything with us. Because, I think - because we've let him down. John, I think,” Scott hesitates. When John lifts his head from his hands, Scott continues timidly. “I’m not sure, but I think he’s somehow gotten hold of the police files? I could smell them in his room, they have a very distinct scent. . .”

John pales. “What.” He turns to Peter. “I thought you two were watching him!”

Peter lifts his hands in surrender, but doesn’t say anything. John narrows his eyes at him. “You’ve helped him, didn’t you. You stole the files for him.”

Peter purses his lips. “Depends on how you define stealing. I just copied them and brought Stiles the copies.”

“I define it like I’m going to wring your fucking neck!” John bellows.

“Please,” Dr. Deaton cuts in, serene as Buddha. “John, Stiles needed to know. And now he does. Stop coddling him. The situation is dire. And Stiles is fighting.”

John sits back down and tries to calm himself. “I just want to do everything right.”

Dr. Deaton staples his fingers, continuing in his trademark monotone. “It is not on us to decide what is right or wrong, John. Derek is dying. It would have been more merciful if you shot him in the head that night. It would have been more 'right'.”

Peter flinches at the words.

“Your son,” Dr. Deaton proceeds, “while you’re doing everything you can to do right by him, according to the laws and rules of the humans, is not fine and is not going to be fine if you continue.”

John presses his fisted hand against his mouth, steeling his resolve. “We can always force feed Derek. Hook him on an IV. And my son. . . he is so young. He is only eighteen. He is going to get better, he is going to get a life, maybe meet some nice young man some day. . .”

“Maybe,” Deaton says mysteriously.

John nods. “What would you do, if you were in my place?”

“I don’t like to imagine. You live and function by the book. Books, that other people have written, in an attempt to keep order on this earth. I do not, and I cannot begin to contemplate such way of thinking. It is not about order - it is about balance.”

John snorts and barely manages not to roll his eyes. “I really don’t have patience-”

“However,” Deaton continues, “I do have a proposition. The cure for both these two young men is pack. To be with their pack members. Stiles needs to see Derek, to be near him, and vice versa. It is about proximity, about pack bonds. I suggest house arrest for Derek, he isn’t capable for more. And supervised visitations for Stiles, when he wants and chooses. Then we let them heal, and make whatever they want out of that situation.”

John gawks at the good doctor. “Are you insane?!” he loses his temper. “What makes you think my son would even want that? Stiles doesn’t want to see Derek, that’s ridiculous.”

“Interesting. Have you asked?”

“I don’t _need_ to ask, he’s afraid of him, for Christ’s sake!”

“Where is Stiles now, John? Why isn’t he here? We _are_ discussing his life.”

“He’s. . . too sensitive, I want to protect him,” John stammers. “And besides, Derek’s going to jail, no jury will ever let him get away with house arrest!”

“Perhaps. Perhaps the jury could be allowed to hear all sides of the story. And perhaps, and this is only a suggestion, mind you - you could drop the charges.”

John gasps.

Melissa half gets up from her seat, ready to intervene with a shot of heart medicine in case John has a stroke.

“What. And do what? Twiddle my thumbs?! The case is still open! We’re working on it! I’m the Sheriff, officer of the law!”

Dr. Deaton smiles benevolently. “Or, instead of wasting your time on insignificant details, you can try and find the real villain here – Kate Argent. Something you should already have done, John, years ago. Six, to be more precise. You’ve failed the Hales terribly then. Don’t fail them now.”

John stands up, pale as a ghost. Peter approaches him in alarm, and holds him by the arms. “It’s all right, John.” The two men stare at each other’s equally blue eyes.

“He’s beaten my son,” John whispers. “Almost killed him.” Peter nods. “I know.”

“He’s been but a mere weapon in the hands of a lunatic, forced to hurt someone who’s the most precious to him,” Deaton says.

“Shut up.”

“There were four victims that night, John,” Deaton says, ignoring John’s command. “Or have you forgotten? Erica Reyes. Vernon Boyd. Stiles Stilinski. And Derek Hale.”

“SHUT UP!” John erupts, and he would have staggered if Peter hadn’t been there to hold him. Melissa rushes to get him some water, but John can’t drink, disoriented and panting, so she splashes him in the face. John coughs and gasps, falling back into his chair. Peter never leaves his side.

Deaton turns around and leaves.

John clutches Peter by the jacket. “Peter,” he rasps, his fingers white with the effort. “I’m sorry, Peter. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too, John,” the werewolf whispers.

“Let’s go find Kate Argent,” John says, and Peter’s eyes shine.

\---

_*three months later*_

This world is quite astonishing, when you claw your way out of the mire of chaos. When you first peek over the horizon and see nature without the haze of sadness. March is quite unappealing in Beacon Hills, trees and roads not white anymore but also not green yet – they’re waiting, naked, for the earth to move a little closer to the sun on its way around it.

John is finished with his shift and is heading home.

Home. . .

His cruiser handles the gravel road with ease. When he reaches the Hale house, John parks next to Peter’s car, an honorary place given to him due to special relations with the pack. Isaac and Jackson’s endless eye-rolling and pouting have been a great source of fun for John. They now get to park on the little clearing on the west side of the house, which is uncovered, so the cars get buried in snow during winter, and unbearably hot during the summer months.

John always grins when remembers that. He grabs the bags with the groceries from the trunk and goes inside. He goes straight to the kitchen to drop the bags, and knows that Peter will nag him because he hasn’t taken his boots off. Peter’s obsessive about cleanliness and he hates when people drag the dirt inside.

Peter’s already in the kitchen, peeling the eggplants, a pile of grated parmesan on the counter. John licks his lips in hunger; he’s probably making eggplant parmigiana, one of John’s favorite dishes.

“Hey,” John greets him, hovering behind Peter’s back.

Peter turns, looks at John with a knowing smile, and leans in for a kiss. John groans. “I needed that,” he whispers. He grabs Peter’s neck, kissing him back with gusto. Peter shushes him. “Quiet. Kids are in the living room,” he says, smirking. John grins at him, nodding conspiratorially.

He takes a beer out of the fridge. “Want one?”, he asks, but Peter shakes his head. “I’ll have wine with dinner. Go, wait for dinner with them.”

Stiles and Cora are sitting on one side of the couch, cuddled together, watching something on Stiles’ laptop and chatting. Scott and Allison are on the loveseat and it looks to John like they’ve just stopped making out, only because he has come in. Good, he thinks evilly. A little decorum in this house can't hurt.

And on the other side of the couch, opposite from Stiles and Cora, sits Derek Hale.

He’s still a shadow of the man, of the werewolf he used to be. His skin is pale, the cheeks drawn in; his dark hair and wide set eyes only accentuate the pallor of his complexion even more.

He must have lost at least fifty pounds, but to everyone’s surprise, he has started eating, for real this time and not just an occasional plate of soup, when Stiles started coming over.

John will never forget that day. It’s etched into his memory like something he never believed could happen, impossible and strange. Following Deaton’s instructions, they did prepare Derek that Stiles was going to come as much as they could, given the circumstances. Derek doesn't speak, and he doesn't react to any outside stimuli, so it's anyone's guess whether he understood them or not.

They didn't use the argument of Derek's deteriorating health to persuade Stiles to come, although it did weigh heavily on all pack members, especially Peter, and by extension, John. It was particularly devastating for him to watch another being after Claudia disintegrate before his eyes. But, no; Stiles was simply presented with Deaton's plan, nothing less, nothing more, and left alone to make an informed decision.

It has taken three days after Derek's arrival for Stiles to come knocking. 

Stiles came, and if it hadn't been for Derek's heaving chest and labored breathing, no one would have known if he was aware. He didn’t want to look at him. But Stiles sat on another couch, and Derek _knew_ \- he knew Stiles was there. If there had been any doubt, it would have been dispelled when Derek started crying, in silence, big, fat tears dropping from his eyelashes like rain. Everybody remained quiet to allow him to compose himself for a few minutes, and then started chattering as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Those were also Deaton's instructions - resuming normal activities.

Stiles fidgeted, and threw incessant glances Derek’s way, while Derek stared through the large bay window. That's how their evenings usually went. But then, things did start to change, so infinitesimally that anyone barely noticed. If their progress could be measured by any measuring unit, it would be in inches - painstakingly slow ones. In layman's terms, it has taken Stiles over a month to sit next to Derek, and then he never moved. The first bite of solid food that Derek has taken was a popcorn from a bowl in Stiles' lap.

Derek hasn’t uttered a word since the accident. The doctors explained to them that it wasn’t that Derek chose not to speak, but that he literally couldn’t, due to psychological trauma. His mutism could get resolved, and it might not; they are all hoping that it will, considering that Stiles’ presence has successfully ended his self-starvation; but, it hasn’t happened yet.

It’s been three months already, two since Stiles and John moved in. It was an obvious, clear solution which John pretended not to see only for a short while. When Peter and John returned from their successful hunt on Kate, his minor injury and Peter’s exhaustion leaving them both collapsed on the couch, Peter blinked at him and said, “stay. Bring Stiles over and just stay. Don’t be a bore,” the werewolf whispered, and promptly passed out.

Another image John will never forget is the sight of Peter, shifted and snarling, clawing Kate Argent’s body to unrecognizable pieces. It was a bloodcurdling sight, up in the Sierra Nevada range where they finally reached her, alone, Gerard having met his end a week before, in the depths of a gaping ravine. John wanted to close her eyes, but he didn’t – not only had he witnessed a murder, but also felt deep fulfillment and unbridled joy because of the cosmic justice of the act.

He’s still waiting for his Sheriff's instincts to kick in and feel any regret about his anarchistic feelings.

Other things happened on that journey as well, things that make John take out Claudia’s photograph at night, and ask her silently for approval.

He sips on his beer, divine smells wafting from the kitchen, and watches openly Stiles’ regular evening show – his son keeps his head turned towards the laptop, but his eyes are focused to the left, on Derek. When Cora gets up and goes to help Peter set the table, Stiles turns, and leans against the armrest, his legs stretched across the sofa until they’re almost touching Derek, and watches. It’s his favorite position. John has witnessed him spend hours like that, laser-focused on Derek’s face. It seems he’s even learned to read some of Derek’s minute expressions; Stiles will flick the channels on the TV, stop on a random one without explanation, and not let anyone change it. It’s taken John a few attempts to figure out that that’s because Derek’s watching.

Things have been peaceful here at the Hale house, and it makes John happy. Well, except for that inevitable interim when Stiles caught on John and Peter’s, um, _involvement_ \- they all got to see Stiles switch from anger to happiness, then from sadness to joy in an unbelievable span of five whole minutes.

Peter calls and they all sit at the table.

Stiles goes and stands next to Derek - it's a thing. Somehow, Stiles has figured out how to handle Derek. It takes the werewolf a few seconds to get up and shuffle to the table. Stiles sits next to him and fixes him a plate. No one pays any attention to them, already used to the proceedings. That’s the only way Derek wants to eat. He never looks at Stiles, or touches him.

That is, until a week later, when Peter and John bring fresh trout from the lake and Jackson and Isaac fire up the barbecue to grill it, Stiles starts choking on a bone and Derek slaps him softly on the back a few times to help him. Everybody freezes; Stiles blinks, looking at their faces with watery eyes, and smiles. Progress.

At night, Peter and John go to their room, Scott and Allison to theirs. Stiles has his own, as does Derek. They’re on the opposite sides of the hall. The rest of the pack sleeps downstairs, except for sometimes Cora, who likes to sneak into Stiles’ room and get under the covers, hogging them for herself. Stiles doesn’t mind, he’s grown to quite like her.

\---

_***three years later_

“Come on,” Stiles pulls Derek’s arm. “Stop dragging your feet, Der. I want to be home when the postman arrives, you know that, and we still haven’t gotten everything we need.”

Derek is not dragging his feet. He’s carrying three bags filled with groceries, he's allowed to take his time. They meander through the farmers’ market, trying to avoid bumping into other people and children running around their feet. It’s a busy day.

“Look, rhubarb! We’ll get some of that. We can make pie. Do you like rhubarb pie? My mom used to make it. Peter must have the recipe; I’ll wait until he gets home. Oh, Brussels’ sprouts! Dad’ll love that.” Stiles’ attention span is still lacking.

He saddles Derek with bags like a donkey, but Derek doesn’t mind. He never leaves Stiles’ side. People try to be respectful, but they don’t hide their smiles and pleased looks. The grocers wink at Stiles knowingly, happy to see them together, adding an extra orange or tomato to their bags, and Stiles winks right back at them. He is happy, too.

Derek is better, but still not good. Scott and Peter still have to pick up his alpha duties for him, he is still not speaking. But- he is better.

They get some yellow bell peppers and garlic as well. While they're waiting in line for organic eggs, a kid pops a firecracker near them which bangs and sizzles, and Derek drops the bags and covers his head with his hands. 

"Shit," Stiles swears through his teeth, instantly enveloping Derek in a hug. Derek bends down, and buries his head in Stiles' chest. "It's fine, baby, it was just a stupid firecracker," Stiles whispers and runs his fingers through Derek's hair. He leans his mouth on Derek's ear and releases a long, soft, humming sound. He's learned it calms Derek the most.

"The show's over, guys," Stiles tells the people watching them with concern. "We'll be here next week, too." 

When they get home, they put away the groceries and then Stiles plasters himself to the front window, waiting for the postman. He always arrives later than normal to their house, only because it is so removed and secluded.

“He’s here, he’s here!” Stiles claps and runs outside. Derek goes after him slowly.

“Special delivery for Mr. Stilinski,” Toby the postman winks.

Stiles has no idea why everybody feels the compulsion to wink at him, but he hops on his feet in excitement anyway and takes the big, white packet from Toby’s hands.

“Thanks, Toby!” Stiles chirps. Toby grins at them, fires up his motorbike and leaves.

Stiles turns towards Derek. “Let’s go inside to open it.” Derek nods, a small smile on his lips. They settle on the couch. “I need a paperknife, do we have a paperknife? I don’t want to damage anything.”

Derek reaches for the drawer in their coffee table and takes out the paper-knife. Stiles finally opens the packet and reveals its contents. He pushes the wrapping paper away and spreads the dark blue padded certificate holder across both their laps.

_**University of Beacon Hills** _

**The Faculty of the University of California**

**with the Approbation of the Board of Trustees**

**Hereby Admit**

_**Stiles P. Stilinski** _

**To the Degree of Bachelor of Literature**

**Cum Laude**

Stiles sighs happily and Derek brings his finger across the letter P between Stiles’ first and last name.

Stiles blushes. “Shut up. It’s Przemysław, and if you tell anybody, I’ll put the itching powder into your knickers,” Stiles threatens, but he’s already smiling and climbing into Derek’s lap. He wraps his arms around Derek’s neck and kisses him on the mouth, sighing with content. Derek closes his eyes and smiles.

“Are you happy for me, Der?” Stiles murmurs, dragging his lips across Derek’s cheek, left and right, enjoying the soft scratch of his stubble. “I was thinking,” Stiles kisses Derek again, and Derek pulls him more firmly towards his body. “That bookstore, near the Lincoln Center downtown. . .” Stiles shivers when Derek’s tongue brushes across his own. “Peter knows the owner. And it has this little section like a coffee shop, with pastries and everything. . .”

Derek kisses him behind his ear, which never fails to give Stiles goose bumps. “You could wait for me there. Of course, I forbid you to ogle hot college girls that flock there, I’ll be watching you, you know. You’re all mine.”

Derek sits back and gives him this look that tells Stiles, very loud and clear, that he’s being ridiculous.

Stiles laughs. “I’m just saying.”

Stiles makes the rhubarb pie, Derek makes pasta carbonara for dinner and they wait for the pack to arrive.

After dinner, everybody crashes in front of the TV, except Derek and Stiles.

They go to their bedroom, eager since the afternoon, anxious and jittery in anticipation of their gentle lovemaking, silent and intense. Clothes get discarded, sheets unraveled. They fall next to each other, breathless and smiling. It's taken them a while to learn each other’s bodies, the learning itself a pleasurable experience; but they know now, confident and efficient in their expertise. Their moves are practiced, like ballet dancers'; although when Stiles rocks down, biting his lips, it’s still a challenge, it still hurts a little at first. Stiles loves that feeling the most, so he keeps bearing down, taking all of Derek, because until he doesn't, he feels like he cannot breathe. The dance begins, building up until Stiles loses his grip with the reality. He bends his head backwards and pants. Derek helps him, always – he holds his lover’s hands, and when Stiles gets too shivery and exhausted from the effort, dazed by the looming climax, he moves him, pressing up as far as he can go, almost lifting Stiles’ entire body in his desire. They both grunt when they peak.

Stiles falls against him, soft and sleepy, and Derek nudges him in the cheek like a puppy. When Stiles doesn’t move, Derek nibbles his ear and kisses it. “I hear you, my love, I hear you. I love you too.”

THE END


End file.
